


Fiendfyre & Infernos (On Your Knees)

by rightsidethru



Series: The Child of Frost and Flame [7]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Magic Canon, Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Alternate Universe - Magic, Established Relationship, Future Fic, M/M, Oral Sex, Post Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Professor!Peter Hale, Rough Oral Sex, Scent Marking, Scenting, Steter Week, Steter Week 2016, Steter Week 2017, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-26
Updated: 2017-11-26
Packaged: 2019-02-07 03:24:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12832296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rightsidethru/pseuds/rightsidethru
Summary: Stiles comes away from a day of work at the Ministry of Magic in a truly spectacularly foul mood.Peter makes an effort at cheering him up.*Please note: You don't have to be familiar with the rest of the series to read this for Steter Week. Reading the author's note should suffice.





	Fiendfyre & Infernos (On Your Knees)

**Author's Note:**

> **_November 26:_ Smut -** Here’s where you can go all-out creating the steamiest, sexiest Steter fan work you desire: Daddy kink, BDSM, sex pollen, erotic dreams, anything and everything related to Stiles and Peter getting it on.
> 
> *
> 
> Kudos and comments are loved and appreciated! <3
> 
> *
> 
> http://rightsidethru.tumblr.com/
> 
> *
> 
>  **Summary:** This story takes place in the future, when Stiles is around 20. He transferred to Hogwarts from America when he was in his Sixth Year and Peter was (and still is) the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. Stiles is an up-and-coming Dark Lord by Magic's decree and, after graduating, goes to work at the Ministry of Magic.

_Oh_  
_I love the feeling_  
_You bring to me_  
_Oh, you turn me on_  
_It's exactly what_  
_I've been yearning for_  
_Give it to me strong_  
_And meet me in my boudoir_  
_Make my body say ah, ah, ah_  
_I like it_  
_Like it_  
[“S&M”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cPqBLSVot00) \- Rihanna

++

The foul mood clung to Stiles like spiderweb strands, stretching far and wide and sticking to the twenty year-old throughout most of his day: little could be done to rid himself of the dark, angry-struck mood—and, by the time that the amber-eyed man finally managed to leave the Ministry’s hallowed corridors… it had lingered long enough that it had become fuel for the fire, sparking magic and intent until others instinctively shied away from the quietly livid Undersecretary.

By the time five o’clock came ‘round and the one-time Slytherin was able to head home, colleagues had made his office no-man’s land despite the fact that Stiles was normally social and careful to present an approachable and likeable persona to anyone and everyone he came across within the Ministry’s halls. A persona both true and false, two halves of a whole: but it was the darker mask that peeked out from the shadows this day.

Glad to be finally released from his duties, the young Undersecretary took advantage of his access to Minister Shacklebolt’s fireplace, using a pinch of the other’s Floo powder to whisk himself away home and to the dueling chamber that lay hidden from nearly everyone’s knowledge, buried beneath ward after ward after ward that Stiles and Peter had both drawn up, each pooling his own particular brand of power into the foundations, when they had first purchased the small house.

It took only seconds before the amber-eyed man was stepped through the fireplace and into his own living quarters, and the dueling chamber was the first room that he immediately headed towards, shedding Ministry robes behind him—discarding a useless brand of mask along the way to don a much more familiar one as magic and intent and shadows spiked around him, cloaking the fledgling Dark Lord in shades of twilight even as his nogitsune watched his journey with tarnished silver eyes—content, for now, to sit back with its nine tails curled ‘round its front legs.

++

Magic lay waste to the room long before Peter wrapped up his office hours and returned to the house he shared with Stiles: wand left behind with the Undersecretary’s dull red robes, it was will alone that shaped the boy’s strikes to leave behind absolute devastation as he worked through the temper that the visiting Venezuelan Minister and American President aroused. Months of careful work, painstakingly laid out—pointless and ruined because of the bumbling, too loud opinions that the foreign governments had steamrolled in.

The plans that Stiles had had for the upcoming Wizengamot meeting now lay in tattered remnants of possibilities and potentialities, and the amber-eyed wizard now needed to start over from scratch: slowly building, again and again and again, meticulous and organized down to as many details as possible… and the absolute frustration that accompanied the knowledge that it was all futile at this particular stage in the game released his rage in an echoing scream that rang with intent and a particular brand of _Power_ that had buried itself deep in marrow and soul: his eyes _glowed_ , fierce and furious and spilling over with magic--and Fiendfyre sparked into being, spiraling beyond Stiles’ immediate control as it hungrily stampeded towards one corner of the dueling chamber.

A soft sound at the dueling chamber’s door eventually had the young man break through the roiling surface of his fury—

Stiles paused in his systematic destruction of the dueling dummies, Fiendfyre fighting his hold even as the fire slowly swallowed itself whole until only the barest of embers remained; the Undersecretary’s amber gaze blazed with magic and a dark sort of intent as he glanced over his shoulder to look at his one-time Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. What awaited his sight, however, the still-growing Dark Lord hadn’t been expecting:

Peter knelt on the stone floor within the doorway to the room, head bowed _just so_ even as the Alpha watched the younger man from beneath the thick line of his lashes, eyes an eerie sort of crimson even with the dark veil to soften the glow.

It was a position that spoke of submission, of trust in the knowledge that a person wouldn’t be harmed beyond what he or she initially allowed and agreed to: a position of humiliation, in particular, for an Alpha—one who couldn’t be anything _less_ , not with the instincts that accompanied and were paired with that title.

“…Peter. What are you doing?” Stiles asked, slow and cautious, leery of the reason for this particular sign of submission. Power plays were not uncommon between the both of them, the lead switching off regularly—one giving way before pressing an advantage the next time around, cutthroat and ruthless in the way that only they were truly capable of complementing in the other—but _this_ …? Immediate and unrepentant, baring his throat and waiting expectantly for Stiles’ response…?

 _That_ was not typical.

“You’ve had a bad day. I thought that I would make it better, sweetheart,” Peter countered readily enough, a pink tongue a _there-and-gone_ presence against the ‘wolf’s upper lip. The implications that threaded within the blue-eyed man’s offer darkened the younger’s eyes, turning Stiles’ gaze mahogany and rich in desire and spiking _want_ , and the Ministry worker took a sole, predatory step forward.

“This isn’t the first time I’ve come home from a bad day at work, though,” the soon-to-be Dark Lord murmured in response, step-step-stepping around Peter’s kneeling form and moving languidly enough for the ‘wolf to keep an eye on him from the peripheral of his vision. “What makes _today_ any different?”

Stiles received a chuckle in response to his wary inquiry, and Peter gestured towards the utter destruction that spread throughout the dueling room: mannequins lay in pieces, some still faintly smoking with the remnants of the boy’s _temper tantrum_ ; scorch marks littered the walls and floors, craters a common enough feature that the magic that lay within the room’s foundations and wards hadn’t yet managed to heal. It was a battlefield that Stiles had left behind, one that demonstrated the whiskey-eyed man’s power and prowess both, and the sight that lay before him sent a curl of hellfire-bright _arousal_ through Peter’s belly.

The boy was a force to be reckoned with, even now as Stiles was still gathering magic and followers to him, and Peter was able to acknowledge—to himself if no one else—that there was something absolutely delightful in offering himself up to this slip of a man in such a way: a vulnerability that he would allow of no one else because Stiles was _his_ , from soul to marrow and shadow-kissed magic, and this was Stiles’ right to claim—should he ever wish it—as Lord over the magic that ran within the earth’s bones. Dark and Light and shades of Gray, this boy called to Peter and his ‘wolf both, magic singing joyously out into the Void that Stiles commanded, and the older man was helpless before him, caught up in the riptide that Stiles made as he forged his way through the world.

Even knowing the effect that Stiles had on him, masked though it oftentimes was, Peter’s reply was wry, sharp tinged with sarcasm and challenge: “I found myself particularly… _inspired_ today.” (And if that inspiration came paired with the knowledge that, not once, had the DADA professor caught sight of Stiles using his wand as he lay systematic waste to their dueling room… well, that was Peter’s secret to keep silent behind sealed lips.)

“How magnanimous of you,” Stiles murmured in answer, finally stopping as he stood immediately before his old teacher. He reached out and buried pale, pianist fingers in Peter’s dirty blond hair, refraining from any sort of comment as the elder’s eyes slowly closed, hiding away that burning crimson gaze. The younger of the two gently tugged and the ‘wolf swayed forward as he followed the motion of that gesture: ending with his nose buried in the sharp arch of Stiles’ hip, lips parting slightly as he breathed deep to draw in his mate’s scent.

A quiet rumble purred out from the depths of Peter’s chest, vibratingly low, and the Alpha shifted just enough to rub a rough cheek against the front of the boy’s trousers, lashes moving to half-mast at the soft _scritch_ of stubble against well-tailored wool. Claw-tipped hands came up to cup over the backs of Stiles’ muscled thighs, surprisingly gentle despite the threat that his claws readily provided—hold using just enough strength to keep the Dark Lord close and within touching distance.

Peter’s fingers flexed, testing the limits he had tentatively laid down, and Stiles’ grip tightened in turn.

The ‘wolf hid a wickedly sharp smile at that reaction, eyes falling shut once more, and he rubbed his cheek over the front of the other’s pants yet again—rougher than previous, basking in the sharp inhale that accompanied the gesture from up above. The scent of Stiles’ arousal deepened the air at the juncture of the boy’s thigh, darkening it with musk and the salt of sweat and the distinctive tang of pre-cum, and Peter idly mouthed over the outline of his Lord’s slowly hardening cock, letting the member fill and thicken against the heat of his mouth.

Wool grew damp from the touch of his saliva and the brief space between them both grew hot and humid from Peter’s touch, the warmth of his body, the panting exhales of his breaths, and the ‘wolf muffled a low moan as he once again pressed his nose against the crease of Stiles’ thigh to just _breathe_.

While the position normally came paired with an acknowledgement of submission so, too, did Peter still manage to keep an edge of control: _knowing_ just what sort of effect he had on the younger man, even as the ‘wolf allowed himself to become drunk on Stiles’ scent and power over him, the grip the other had on his hair a warning and guarantee that Stiles could and _would_ pull Peter away at any point during their activities should he so choose.

There was no request to stop, however, so Peter instead reached around to unbutton the boy’s pants, dragging trousers and briefs over slim hips and muscled thighs all in one go; Stiles’ cock slipped free from the confines of his underwear, bobbing up to brush against Peter’s stubbled cheek as the elastic of the brief’s waistband moved lower and lower still until fabric bunched together at his knees. The sandpapery touch, however, was enough to prompt a sound from the fledgling Dark Lord, low and rough, and Stiles’ hold on Peter’s hair tightened to the point of pain for the ‘wolf—and Peter _reveled_ in it.

“I want you to suck me,” Stiles ordered, voice hoarse from the sight of Peter on his knees, blood-red glinting here and there as the Alpha werewolf glanced upwards to absently meet the younger man’s gaze, expression lyingly coy. The smile that Peter offered in turn at the younger wizard’s command was lazy, predatory and all wolf even as he mouthed along the Ministry worker’s now-bared cock. He lapped at the flushed skin, rumbling purr escaping once more at the taste of undeniable _want_ even as his canines made a brief appearance so that he could scrape teasingly over the winged arch of a hipbone.

Motion almost teasing in nature—because that’s exactly what it was—Peter ducked his head lower to nuzzle a cheek against the sensitive skin of Stiles’ thigh, breathing deeply to draw in the musk of the younger man’s arousal: wanting nothing more than to roll around in the heady scent, possessive in the fact that Peter had always been the first. The first to touch, to scent, to mark, to claim and be claimed in turn. Head tilting just-so to the side, the ‘wolf rubbed his cheeks against the milky-pale bared line of flesh, knowing that Stiles’ thighs would soon enough be bright red and sporting beard burn that would linger for a day or two more.

“What’s the magic word, darling boy?” the Alpha murmured in turn, returning his attention to the thick line of Stiles’ cock to curl a tongue around the flushed head of the erection and lapping at the leaking pre-cum with the flat of Peter’s tongue.

In turn, Stiles used the hold that he had upon Peter’s head to pull the Alpha back, forcing the older man to look upwards to fully meet the other’s burning, whiskey-hued gaze as the Dark Lord forced the ‘wolf into baring his throat to him: jugular exposed and vulnerable as the younger wizard wrapped his free hand around that thick expanse. 

Crimson met amber, and the boy tightened his hold on both hair and throat before Stiles dragged Peter close to press his nose against the dark curls that surrounded the base of his cock—and Peter went willingly. His voice dark with warning and promise both, ringing still with a hint of steel, Stiles quietly husked: “I want you to suck me, Peter, and then choke on my cock as I come down your throat.”

The demand had the older ‘wolf’s gaze flaring crimson in reaction, bright and jewel-clear, and Peter’s hands once again came around to cup possessively over the backs of Stiles’ thighs. “Yes, _my Lord_ ,” he purred out, smug at having won in forcing Stiles into his order, and Peter finally parted his lips to draw the other’s cock into the slick heat of his mouth. He bared down, tongue flattening along the bottom of Stiles’ cock, pressing further and further with hollowed cheeks until the ‘wolf was able to once again bury his nose in sharply curled hair, breathing in the familiar scent of his mate’s arousal—tasting sweat and pre-cum and wanting nothing more to drink him down as the amber-eyed man fell apart above him.

Stiles was a thick, heavy weight within his mouth, and Peter smugly thrilled at the small, hitching gestures of the other’s hips as Peter pulled back and away: tiny thrusts, unconscious as the younger man moved back towards the ‘wolf, seeking wet heat and wanting nothing more than to bury himself to the root within it.

As Stiles moved closer, small and desperate sound slipping out into the air, Peter rumbled out an approval and opened his mouth fully to let the younger man thrust roughly into the slick tightness that his mouth offered. The Alpha relaxed, practically going boneless against Stiles’ legs, and parted his lips enough so that the other could take what he wanted: hungry and angry and _demanding_ , selfish with it all, aggression still tinged with the remnants of the bad mood that had filled most of his day, Stiles fucked unrepentantly into Peter’s willing mouth, chasing a climax even as his fingers combed gently through the silky strands of the ‘wolf’s hair to reward the older man for this particular generosity.

Over and over again, Stiles buried himself to the hilt within the welcome, familiar tightness of Peter’s body, breath hitching and speeding up as he came closer to orgasm: wound to a desperately tense, unrelenting knot, waiting for that final bit of pressure to finally _snap_ and release—greedy for it in his desire and willing to grasp needily for what the Alpha offered, unforgiving and glutting himself on the sensation as he chased after his own climax.

“ _Peter_ \--“

Sooner than what he had originally anticipated, Stiles’ fingers tightened yet again in the hair at the back of Peter’s head, dragging the older wizard closer even as he buried himself thoroughly in the wet heat of the ‘wolf’s mouth; the amber-eyed man moaned, softly guttural, sound punched out of him even as his hips rolled and pressed deeper and _deeper_ still—finding a climax as his cock pulsed steadily within Peter’s mouth, thick weight upon the flat of the other’s tongue, and coming down the back of the older man’s throat as Stiles had originally demanded of the Alpha. Stiles _drowned_ in the frentic, encompassing pace of his pleasure, letting it surge before overtaking him completely with a tsunami’s unrelenting force: there was desire and heat and climax and the possessive hold of Peter’s hands upon his thighs, tight enough that the ‘wolf would certainly be leaving bruises to be felt each and every time that the amber-eyed man sat in the upcoming days.

It was too rough and not enough, and perfect all the same as Stiles’ hand cupped—equally possessive—over the nape of the Alpha’s neck.

There was a dark sort of satisfaction within Peter’s gaze even as he watched the tense lines of Stiles’ face finally unclench and relax at finally reaching that pinnacle: knowing that he had brought the younger man over that edge, feral and possessive in the knowledge that only _he_ was the one allowed to catch sight of this particular view: this was his—his to take, to claim, to see; his mate, a Dark counterpart to the ‘wolf that slumbered within the shadows of his soul, a Lord to bow his head to—the only viable choice and only openly given for the gift alone of his Alphahood: and so, too, with the _knowing_ that Stiles’ gaze would always seek out Peter’s first and foremost. _His his his._

Slowly, Peter pulled off of Stiles’ softening cock, purposefully shifting so that his mouth gave a lewd _pop_ when he finally eased completely off—pausing, too, for a moment to press a spit-slicked kiss to the tip of the sensitive organ; the gesture and the touch inspired a body encompassing shudder from the younger man while a broken sound slipped into the air, and the Alpha’s answering smile at hearing it was both wolfish and smug. Peter’s eyes flared with a crimson glow, feral and hungry and satisfied all the same.

“Feeling better now?” the professor asked and scraped his teeth over the winged arch of Stiles’ hipbone once more.

“Go suck a dick,” Stiles answered in turn, voice tired and strung out though his touch remained gentle and affectionate as he continued to comb his nimble fingers through the thick silk of the ‘wolf’s hair, brushing it away from Peter’s face so that the younger of the two could watch his expressions as he looked down upon the other.

“I do believe that I just did, sweet boy,” Peter purred out and turned his head to _bite_ over the sharp bone, predatory and possessive and untamed even as he remained kneeling at the Dark Lord’s feet.

Both gesture and reply made Stiles laugh in response, the sound striking like the call to war within the confines of their dueling chamber: an edged sort of wildness that few could match—even fewer _wanting_ to—and Stiles allowed his legs to give out beneath him. He fell like a puppet cut of its strings, straddling over Peter’s thighs in turn even as he used that gentling hold upon the ‘wolf’s hair to drag the older man closer. They kissed, each reaching for the claim that had been readily given years before, power flooding between them both, and Stiles coaxed the ‘wolf’s lips into parting as he chased the taste of his own release within Peter’s mouth:

Taking and taken in turn.

_Ours._

::fin::


End file.
